C'est l'Empire de la Mort
by joostthecow1
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire don't get shot by the national guard. They go to the Catacombes. Or the Catacombeferres, if you will. Set in the original time period.
1. Chapter 1

"Ârret," was written on the plaque. "C'est l'empire de la mort."  
Stop. It's the empire of the dead.

The first thing Grantaire thought when Enjolras pulled him through the gate into the stairway to the Catacombs was, surprisingly, not _I'm not going to die._ It was, _Enjolras' arm is bleeding badly and I don't know what to do, and, oh, god, I've slept through the Revolution._  
Grantaire had been drunk, more drunk than usual, and had woken up to the sound of Enjolras proclaiming his devotion to the Rebellion, to France. The cynic had then gathered himself, stood, and made his way over to his leader. The National Guard watched him closely, and as he stood with Enjolras, they took aim. That was when shots fired from below them caused the flooring beneath their feet to cave in, and the both of them dropped through to the first floor. They hit the ground together, rubble all around them. Grantaire felt as though he was covered in soon-to-be bruises, but other than that, he wasn't hurt. Still, he had been shocked out of his mind, but Enjolras was not. Enjolras grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him through the dust and splintered floorboards towards a grate on the side of a building. Without hesitation, the leader yanked off the loosely attached metal and threw himself in, pulling Grantaire along behind him.  
Together, they ran down the stone stairs to an antechamber, where Grantaire had finally regained enough mental stamina to comprehend to words written on the plaque. He also noticed the blood dripping from Enjolras' arm as the man slid down against the wall. Grantaire watched as he put his head in his hands, disregarding whatever pain he was feeling from moving his arm.  
"Courfeyrac...Combeferre...Feuilly…" He whispered, barely audible. Grantaire felt a sense of dread wash over him. His friends had died. They had died while he had slept, died while he had drunk away his own small problems. He sat himself down next to Enjolras, close, but not too close. Grantaire had been about to say something when Enjolras spoke again. "I led them to their deaths, Grantaire."  
"Enjolras," Grantaire started, "it's not your fault." It was cheap, and Grantaire knew it, but Enjolras couldn't blame himself. _Especially not while he's practically bleeding out._ Enjolras' breaths were shaky, as if he couldn't calm himself, and he shook his head at Grantaire's words. "Enjolras. You need to stay calm right now, okay? I need to see your arm." The younger man, clearly now being struck by the shock of the events, only nodded in response.  
Grantaire crawled closer to him across the dusty floor. He lifted Enjolras' left arm and held it up, trying to remember what Joly had taught him about medicine. His sleeve, which was already torn, was the obvious choice for a wrap. He ripped the remainder of it off, and placed it over Enjolras' arm. He wanted to say something, ask if Enjolras was okay, but it didn't seem right at that moment. Grantaire tightened the wrap, and Enjolras winced. Grantaire was silent.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras gave Grantaire a small nod as a thank you, and Grantaire smiled. Then, he thought, _what a fool you are, Grantaire, we've lost our friends and you're_ smiling. As Grantaire pondered over how to correct his mistake, the sound of footsteps and voices from above the pair caught his attention.  
"They went this way, the leader and the dark haired one. I'm sure I saw them!" It was a member of the National Guard, surely. Another voice cut through the stale air.  
"What a hiding place, the near-dead with the dead." The sentence was a morbid reminder of their situation. They were enemies of the state, alone, and on the run.  
"Enjolras," he whispered, "get up." But the younger man was already on his feet, already had Grantaire's hand in his own, was already leading him down into a corridor beyond the plaque.  
In any other situation, Grantaire would have been pleased, and probably blushing. Enjolras was his Apollo, his great leader, and above all, the man he loved. It pained him to see the younger bleed, to see him afraid. Yet alongside this fighting Enjolras, Grantaire felt as if he could do anything. He could stand up to the National Guard. He would fight to the end. Yes, he would. For Enjolras.  
They stepped quickly and quietly through the stone hallways, winding down paths in such an odd pattern that made Grantaire think Enjolras either knew exactly where he was going or had no idea at all. They wound past the walls that were packed tightly with bones and skulls. Their ancestors, the warriors of the French Revolution. And here the two of them were, death approaching fast behind them.  
"This way." Enjolras' voice was quiet yet pronounced, he was clearly focused. He pulled Grantaire to a corridor on his left, and from there crouched down to the side of a small opening in the limestone wall. "You first. I want you safe before me."  
Grantaire's heart fluttered at Enjolras' words, but he scolded himself. _You fool. He's just being himself. He would do it for any of Les Amis, any revolutionary citizen, for that matter._ Grantaire obeyed with haste, crawling into the new space. It was a tunnel, about four feet high and three wide. There were a lot of bones. They covered the floor in multiple layers. Enjolras followed, and he thought he heard him make a small pained noise as he put his arm down on them. Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, who, sure enough, was wincing. But when the leader looked up at Grantaire, he masked his pain with a face of determination.  
Grantaire knew that face so well. He saw Enjolras wear it whenever he stood up at the Musain to speak about the Rebellion. He wore it the time he had came to one of Grantaire's boxing matches with Courfeyrac. He remembered so clearly catching his eye before he fought his match, and it filled him with joy and courage. Grantaire had won that match quicker than any, and he remembered seeing pride on Enjolras' face, next to a jumping up and down Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, he remembered, who was now dead.  
"We should keep moving. We can't let them find us." Enjolras' eyes glistened with blue fire as he spoke, but there was also something behind that fire. Something Grantaire couldn't pinpoint.  
Grantaire only nodded, he'd give Enjolras some more time before he began pestering him about his arm.  
They crawled slowly through the bones for what seemed like ages, but it may only have been just under an hour. Grantaire had kept moving, but he stopped hearing the sound of Enjolras behind him. He turned around, and saw the man leaning against the wall, clutching at his side, wincing again.  
"Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, "are you alright?" Enjolras looked down the corridor at him, a defeated look on his face. "If you need to rest, you need to rest." Grantaire crawled back towards him. "Why are you holding your side like that?"  
Enjolras closed his eyes, shook his head, and leaned it against the wall. He gulped, and opened his eyes again.  
"I can keep going," Enjolras said, "I'll be fine." Grantaire stared at him, dumbfounded.  
"No, you can't." He gathered up his courage, and touched Enjolras' side where he had been holding himself. Enjolras let out a cry of pain. "Okay, Enjolras, something's wrong. You have to let me help." Enjolras only nodded, which Grantaire took as permission to check him out himself.  
Grantaire helped Enjolras take off the red vest he was wearing, carefully lifting it over the wrap on his arm. He held his breath, and then lifted up the white shirt underneath, exposing Enjolras' skin. He traced his fingers up Enjolras' side until he reached a blotchy red and purple spot over one of his ribs. Enjolras made a small gaspy noise, and Grantaire took his hand away.  
"Apollo...Your ribs are pretty bruised. One could be broken. I-I'm no Joly, but, it look bad." Grantaire wished he ad Joly to help him, wished his dead friend could still be alive. "I wish I could do something for you." Maybe if Grantaire hadn't been drunk he could've done something to save one of them, any of them! If only.  
"We've been crawling for a while. If we keep going, we should be able to find an exit." Enjolras pulled his vest back on, and pushed ahead of Grantaire, pressing onward. Grantaire followed him, awestruck by his leader's determination.  
Soon enough, they came across an opening to the left. Enjolras wanted to hop out first, but Grantaire wouldn't let him. He pulled him back. Grantaire sat on the edge of the opening, and hopped down a four foot drop into the room  
"Looks all clear." He reached a hand up to Enjolras, who took it. As Enjolras slipped down, Grantaire wrapped his other arm around Enjolras' waist, carefully lowering him down to the ground. They stared at each other for a minute, and R could feel his heart beating faster.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras looked Grantaire in the eyes when he spoke. "I led them to their deaths. They...They died because they followed me." His voice had lowered to barely a whisper, and Grantaire knew he had to say _something._  
"Enjolras. They followed you on their own choice. _I_ followed you on my own choice, and we're alive."  
"And lost."  
"That's not the point. They followed you because they believed in you, and I'm sure they still believe in you now. If you had told them not to come, they would've came anyway. Your leadership does that. They'd do anything, and they did." Grantaire didn't know if he had spoken the right thing, or if it even made sense. He continued, "if you're going to be angry with anyone, don't be angry with yourself. Be angry with me. I slept through the goddamned fight. Maybe- maybe if I had been awake I could've saved one of them...Combeferre or Courfeyrac could be here with you now instead."  
Enjolras started at Grantaire, astonished.  
"Grantaire..don't say that. If you had been awake you may well have been dead by now too. I don't think I could handle...not having one of Mes Amis left with me." Enjolras put his hand up to Grantaire's face. The man was now looking down at the ground, clenching his fist, other arm still around Enjolras' waist.  
"Don't, Enjolras. We both know you'd rather have someone else here. You shouldn't have saved me. Maybe there was someone else still alive; Jehan, or Marius, God knows he needs to live. I'm not worth it."  
"Shut up," were the only words spoken by Enjolras before Grantaire felt the leader press his lips to his face. Was he dreaming? God knows Grantaire _had_ had a dream like this before, though maybe not in the Catacombs.  
Grantaire kissed Enjolras back, with more want than he had meant to put into it. He tightened his grip around Enjolras' waist. Forgetting about the man's rib predicament, he walked forward, pinning Enjolras to the wall of the room and moving his free hand to his other hip. Enjolras was holding Grantaire at the shoulders, kissing just as strongly. It was like fire for Grantaire, being here, doing this, with _Enjolras,_ the one he had loved for so long. His Apollo, his leader, his Enjolras.


	4. Chapter 4

"R…" They both pulled away, and Enjolras was flushed red. Grantaire couldn't suppress a smirk.  
"Oh, my god, Enjolras. I-"  
Enjolras cut him off again with another kiss, this time more sure of himself. He pushed himself up against Grantaire, who responded by pushing back, hitting him against the wall, again. Enjolras made an _oomph_ sound, which only made Grantaire deepen the kiss.  
Enjolras lifted his arms higher, wrapping them around Grantaire's neck. Grantaire pushed his hips harder against the wall, until Enjolras broke away and turned his attention to his arm, examining it.  
"Damn it. I think it's bleeding again."  
Grantaire took Enjolras' arm in his hand, looking closely at the wrap.  
"I'll have to redo it."  
Before Grantaire could do something to help him, they heard voices echoing from what looked like a corridor outside of one of the exits to the room.  
Enjolras puts that face back on, the one that shows he's in charge again. He takes Grantaire's hand tightly and starts walking, snaking along the wall with Grantaire behind him. As the voices grow nearer, Enjolras turns around, locking eyes with Grantaire.  
"Grantaire, if they come in here, you run for the exit, okay? I'll be right behind you." Enjolras gave him a stare, one that, in any other situation, would shut him up.  
"Are you kidding me, Enjolras? I'm staying with you. Don't argue with me. Not now." Grantaire tried to give back an icy stare of his own, to which Enjolras only replied by squeezing his hand and pulling him along.  
They made it into the hallway before the National Guard entered the larger room, and they kept moving. Eventually, they reached a spot with steps leading up, up to the surface.  
Grantaire started walking up, but Enjolras pulled him back.  
"We can't just go up there and waltz around. We have to have a plan. We're wanted, we're-" Enjolras stopped as if he couldn't face the facts in front of him. "We're _criminals._ "  
Grantaire turned around to face Enjolras. The leader's face was scared, it was sad. His Revolution had failed. Their friends were dead. Gone. Just like that. They hadn't won.  
The world had turned upside down. They thought they would be leading Paris to a different future, one that Les Amis thought would be better. They didn't.  
Grantaire pulled Enjolras into an embrace, careful of his arm and ribs. Enjolras put his arms around the cynic, holding onto him tightly. The two of them stood there together, in silence, for what seemed like hours, until Enjolras split away from him and started taking shaky steps up the stairs.  
"We should end up pretty far away from the Barricade. We'll have to get out of Paris from there. Then, we should try to get out of the country. England, maybe, then America. We'll make it." Enjolras waited for Grantaire to catch up to him. The barricade boys climbed to the light.


End file.
